Teresa Hill - Countdown to the Perfect Wedding

“Sorry,” he said, thinking if she offered him anything he’d just take it and run. No time for temptation of any kind. No guilt necessary. No upsetting Victoria or anyone else.

She sighed, put the small bag she’d been carrying down in the farthest corner of the kitchen and said, “You missed breakfast.”

“Yes, I did,” he said, staying carefully in his spot, far away from her.

“And I’m here to feed the guests, so I suppose I’ll have to feed you.”

He swallowed hard, his stomach thrilled at the offer, his taste buds, too, his head telling him to be smart, to get out. But it was three days until the wedding. He’d have to eat sometime, wouldn’t he?

It wasn’t like the woman held some kind of special powers over him. She was just a woman who’d been momentarily covered in powdered sugar while he’d been tipsy, rethinking his soon-to-be lost bachelorhood and had a momentary lapse, nothing more. Surely he could eat her food and not want to do anything else to her. It was a new day, after all. He was himself again, a good guy, a logical, reasonable guy, getting ready to marry a wonderful woman, perfect for him in every way.

So it wasn’t some crazy, intense, hormone-fueled kind of passion between them. It was something infinitely more substantial than that. An honest respect and affection that had grown slowly over time into what he believed would be a dynamic, powerful, longstanding partnership, something that had a shot of withstanding the test of time far greater than any silly infatuation.

What could possibly go wrong with that?

“Thank you,” he said, smiling with nothing but politeness, he hoped. “I’d love some breakfast.”

“Sit,” she said, pointing to a high stool at the breakfast bar on the far side of the kitchen, putting cabinets and a couple of feet of highly polished black granite between them.

Perfect.

He’d stay on his side, and she’d stay on hers.

And he’d get fed and leave.

No harm done.

He went obediently to his side of the kitchen and sat, hoping no one walked by and saw him there, just…because.

Because he didn’t want to look guilty. Didn’t want to feel guilty. Didn’t want to do anything that required him to feel guilty. Because he was a good guy.

This could be like a little test he gave himself, he decided. He was a man getting married to a wonderful woman, and he could sit in this kitchen with an attractive redhead who cooked like a dream and not do anything but appreciate her…food. Yeah, this was all about the food.

He’d been bewitched by her food.

She had a nice smile, he admitted to himself, because he always tried to be honest with himself. And she smelled good, but that was mostly about the food, too, because she always smelled good enough to eat.

Oops .

No, he was okay. He was going to get it back, that Zenlike calm of a man certain of his decision to be married in three days, certain he’d done the right thing.

“Just give me a minute to put these things away, and I’ll find you something to eat,” Amy said, making quick work of that chore and then facing him from the side of the big stainlesssteel refrigerator.

“Fine. Great. Thank you.”

Yeah, he was okay.

She hummed while she worked, he realized while staying far, far away from her, as far as he could get and still be in the kitchen. Her hair was back in the braid, but obviously didn’t want to stay there. It looked as if it was constantly fighting to get out, little red tendrils of curls going this way and that.

Delicate, fieryred circles on the pale skin of her neck.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the thought, but it was a mistake, because it made him remember being up close and personal with that neck the night before. Remembering a fine coating of powdered sugar on that neck and the urge he’d had to lick it off.

Tate winced, groaned, shook his head to block out that image, and then found Amy had turned to stare at him.

“Are you okay?”

No, he was crazy, he decided. Weddingderangement syndrome. Surely such a thing existed. Other perfectly sane, reasonable people just went nuts. Look at Victoria, after all, and how wacky and uptight she’d been the past few weeks.

“I’m fine,” he insisted to Amy, telling himself to get out, now, while he still could.

But then Amy said, “I made bacon and spinach quiche, fresh croissants, fried potatoes and freshcut fruit this morning. I could warm up something for you.”

He felt every bit of his resolve to save himself slipping away, as he once again lied to himself, pledging that he was strong enough and smart enough to simply eat this woman’s wonderful food and not get into any other sort of trouble with her.

“Okay,” he agreed.

“So what would you like?”

“All of it,” he said.

She looked back at him questioningly.

“I’ll just…” Was that bad? It all sounded so good. It had all smelled so good. He wanted it all. He shrugged, as if he could still pretend he didn’t want her food so much that he was risking his entire future by being here in the kitchen with her to get it. “My run this morning…You know? I’m always famished after a run. Anything you have is fine. Anything quick and not too much trouble.”

Was that agreeable enough? He hoped so. He certainly didn’t want to cause any more trouble. Please, let him not cause any more trouble for anyone, especially himself.

“Okay.” She nodded, pulling a big bowl out of the refrigerator and scooping out a serving of mixed fruit. “You can start with this while I warm up a plate of quiche and potatoes for you.”

She put the bowl down in front of him, along with a pretty cloth napkin and polished silver utensils, then she promptly turned her back on him to go to work on the rest.

Tate dug in to the fruit like a man half starved to death. Just plain cut-up fresh fruit. Nothing special about it, he told himself. She hadn’t done anything to it, so it had to be his imagination that it was really, really good. Or maybe the sheer anticipation of what was to come, what he’d smelled this morning—bacon, eggs in the quiche, fried potatoes, freshly baked croissants. He soon smelled it all again as she warmed things in the microwave.

He sat obediently on his stool, still having gone undetected in the kitchen with her, not doing anything untoward at all, feeling quite proud of himself. He was back, Tate the good guy, soon-to-be married, and all was right with the world. She put a plate of luscious-smelling, beautiful food down in front of him. He could smell the bacon, the golden crust of the quiche, the onions and spices mixed in with the potatoes, the warm croissant.

“Anything else I can get you?” she asked politely.

He smiled, again not too friendly, and said, “No, thank you. This is perfect. Just perfect.”

She put a small dish of butter in front of him, a salt shaker, then frowned at the pepper shaker in her hand. “Just a second. I bought fresh peppercorns for the grinder. I just think fresh pepper tastes better.”

She turned to find the little plastic grocery bag she’d stashed in the far corner of the kitchen, picked it up and pulled out a little jar, but when she went to put the bag back down on the counter, she didn’t quite make it. The bag caught half on the edge, half off, and then slid to the floor. A little spice bottle rolled toward him, and Tate bent to pick it up.

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